Aggressive
by HarmZuay
Summary: Nick, Sara, and Greg tackle a case that takes them deep into the world of aggressive inline. Chapter Six up!
1. Goodbye, Grommet

Aggressive 

By HarmZuay

Disclaimer: I do not own CSI: Crime Scene Investigation or any of its characters. They belong to Anthony Zuiker and CBS. This is purely for entertainment purposes. Bloody communists.  
  


Rating: PG-13 for language and violence.

Author's Note: Alright, guys. I had nice short fic a while back, but I'm gonna try for a longer case file this time. First few chapters are going to lay the ground work, but for readers who are "character dependent" (ie. Will not read this because every third word is not Grissom) the main guys in this will be Greg, Nick, and Sara. And several of the suspects will be recurring characters. A real little bit of background- this fic will take a look inside the world of aggressive inline skating. I skate myself, but if my explanations throughout are confusing, let me know. (Another way to get you to review.) No planned romance yet. Umm… And without further ado, here's _Aggressive_.

_Chapter One – Goodbye, Grommet_

"Oh shit! Holy fucking God, I think he's dead! Please, you've gotta help me!"

The voice was young, male, British, and obviously terrified. Dispatch Officer Virginia Orr took a deep breath. It was always difficult to deal with youths. "Please try to calm down, sir. Can you tell me where you are?"

"Yeah. Yeah, umm, Pasa Verde apartments. It's the, uh, Co-Op off of Sycamore. I'm room… uh, shit! I can't remember!"

"Is it on the outside of the door?" Orr questioned patiently.

"Yeah. I think it is. Yeah. Just a sec." She heard a thump as he set the phone down, then a muffled "Bloody hell," as laid eyes on the body once more. "I'm back… It's, uh, 319. Fourth floor though, 'cos the lobby don't really qualify."

"I thought you called them flats."

"Just 'cos I'm British don't mean I haven't Americanized," he shot back, hotly.

"Alright, sorry." She was just trying to calm him down. And it had worked, kind of. He didn't sound nearly as frightened, just pissed. "I'm dispatching a medical team right now. Can you tell me your name?"

"K-koerver Dion. But everyone calls me Kor, ma'am." His voice still shook something awful.

"Alright, Kor. Now can you tell me who the victim is?"

He audibly gulped. "Shroven Khandula, ma'am. He's, oh God… There's a fucking hole in the back of his head!" The words rushed out and suddenly his emotions were back to square one.

"Koerver. Kor, hun, I want you to take and deep breath and-"

"Oh man. Look, I've gotta go…"

"No! Stay on until-" She was talking to a dial tone. "Shit."

* * *

Two squad cars arrived before the paramedics, having been on patrol only three blocks away. They were greeted by a pitiful site. A young boy of about fourteen was slumped against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest, shaking. His eyes were clenched shut and tear tracks were visible on his face like dry riverbeds. 

Sergeant Joe Moresby softly shook the boy's shoulder and his head snapped up, face burning with shame. "S-sorry. I didn't mean to… It's just… I, uh-"

Moresby squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. "It's alright, son." He turned to the three other officers. "You and you, secure the scene. Johnson, you've got first report on this one." Once the others had entered the room, the sergeant shifted his attention back to the boy in the hallway.

"Koerver Dion?" At his silent nod, Moresby continued. "I'm Joe. Everything's going to be taken care of, okay, Koerver?" Another nod. He needed to get the kid talking. "How old are you, son?"

"Fifteen," came the terse response. _Well, at least he didn't use his fingers._

John smiled. "I have a son about your age." He received no response, and his smile faded. "Look, Koerver-"

"It's _Kor._"

"Okay, Kor. I've got some questions for you, and they're probably going to be hard for you to think about, but I need you to answer as best you can, got that?"

Nod.

"Alright, when did you find the body?"

"About… 15 minutes ago. We were going to meet up here and then go to the skate park." He inclined his head toward a faded yellow Senate backpack with a pair of rollerblades strapped to the back. He took a shuddery breath and continued. "I got here about quarter after sic and called as soon as I found him. I didn't do anything, I swear!"

"Hold tight, son. Nobody's accusing you of anything." _Not yet, anyway._ "Now why did you hang up on Dispatch?"

The teenager's cheeks flushed and he fidgeted nervously. 

"Well?"

"Ya see, it was all that blood and…" He shuddered, remembering. "Well, it turned me something wicked." Glancing down the hall, Moresby could discern a small puddle of vomit.

"Right then. Let's get you cleaned up. Rest assured, PD will keep in touch."

* * *

"Gunshot wound to the head- close range. Looks like it entered through the pharynx and blew straight through the brainstem. Died instantly." David began to gather his belongings. "Can't say much more before we get him into autopsy, but everything seems to be in order."

"You mean besides that huge, gaping hole where the back of his head used to be? Sara, any luck with that bullet?" Nick Stokes turned to look at his counterpart.

"Yeah. Almost there." She growled, slowly wedging it out of its burrow in the drywall. "Got it!"

"Gee, wish I could make you growl like that." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"You sound like Greg, ya know that? Can it."

They worked the rest of the scene in companionable silence, with the odd wisecrack or question thrown in. Nearly three hours later, the evidence was bagged, the photos snapped, and immediate finding jotted down. It was ten-thirty at night. The Strip was hot and their shift was barely begun.

Nick carefully latched his kit shut and stretched his back. "Now, not jumping to any conclusions here, but initial reaction says this is just one of those down-and-out kids. Drugs, depression, whatever. Just popped a Colt in his mouth and blew the world away."

Sara was silent for a moment. "Maybe. But first we're gonna find out what he had to live for. And what he had to lose."

A/N: There we go, first chapter. Very short, I just realized, but it looked longer written out on paper, I swear. Anyway, I've written up to about halfway through Chapter Four, but I'd appreciate a Beta. I'm pretty obsessive about grammar and stuff, so I try to make sure it's right beforehand. But I'd also like someone to bounce ideas off of or tell me if stuff's confusing. And, not that I'm trying to limit the opening further, but it'd be cool to have someone that writes CSI fics too, and then it could go both ways. And since I don't want my notes to be longer than the story itself… I'll stop. Review and I'll give you some leuko crystal violet. Not really. Sorry. But it'll make me happy.


	2. Los Dos Flamigos

Aggressive 

By HarmZuay

Disclaimer: I do not own CSI: Crime Scene Investigation or any of its characters. They belong to Anthony Zuiker and CBS. This is purely for entertainment purposes. Bloody Bolsheviks.   
  


Rating: PG-13 for language and violence.

Author's Note: Chapter Two... New record for me! *knocks on wood* I hope this one's a _bit_ longer- it's four pages written in my microscopic, all-caps, piss-off-every-teacher-I've-ever-had handwriting. So you get to see a bit of Greg (and the peasants, er, rabid Greg worshipers, rejoice! Hey, that's me, guys!) and an introduction to the first of the suspects that will soon be "recurring characters." Here goes!

_Chapter Two – Los Dos Flamigos_

Jim Brass popped his aspirin and swallowed the two tablets dry. "Goddammit, Gil! Do you know how many teenage suicides we've had in the last month? Twenty-seven. Twenty-seven kids with their whole damn life in front of them... Now I don't know what these kids are learning in school, but dealing with life it ain't."

Grissom shrugged. "Statistically speaking, it's really not a surprise. Cluster suicides aren't caused by any kind of mass stress or preaching; people just see it as an acceptable alternative promoted by the publicity of each case."

Brass massaged his temples, waiting for his migraine to let up. "Some kind of twisted peer pressure… Tell me, whatever happened to getting drunk and snorting coke?"

* * *

"Whoa, whoa! No skating in my crime lab." Three young faces turned to stare at spiky-haired Greg Sanders. 

"Yo, Greggo!"

"'Sup, dude?"

"Man, I thought you were lying. Supervisor of the LVCL… That's pretty ill, hombre."

Greg grinned. "Of course, I'm supervisor. Would I lie to you guys? Oops, gotta run." With impeccable timing, he bolted around the corner just as Grissom exited the stairwell.

He encountered three snickering teenage boys and he didn't even want to consider what they were laughing about, especially in the wake of their friend's death. "I'm Gil Grissom, night shift supervisor." All three burst into peals of laughter. He gave each a hard stare and they quickly silenced. "I can't possibly imagine what's so amusing, but I'd appreciate it if I could get one of you to come with me." No one moved. "Now."

A lanky, dark-skinned boy with short black hair slowly stood up, and Grissom started back the way he'd come.

"Well… what do we do?" one of the others called after him.

Grissom glanced over his shoulder, not even bothering to conceal his annoyance. "Wait." Then he disappeared.

* * *

"Please state your full name and address for the record."

"Tasco Miguel Venaras. 5154 Flamigo Court."

Nick looked the kid straight in the eye. "Wasn't there a suicide there about a week ago?"

"Yeah." He spoke with a slight Mexican accent that Nick had grown accustomed to hearing in Texas. "Jeremy Santos."

"You knew him?"

Tasco nodded. "Sure. Lived a few doors down."

"So Shroven's death must have hit you like a double-whammy."

"I guess."

"You _guess?_ Two of your friends are dead and you _guess?_" Nick couldn't believe the lack of sympathy from this kid.

"Alright!" He laid his hands on the table in a signal of surrender. "It was hard. I just never sat down and thought about it because I didn't want to deal with it."

Nick was still skeptical. "Tasco, I've been through hundreds of homicides. It's not easy to keep your mind off of one, much less two, of your friends' deaths."

"First, it's Taz. My dad was the only person who ever called me Tasco." This time he met Nick's gaze, eyes blazing. "Second, apparently you've never been skating. It takes your mind off everything. Like getting high without the crash. And the acting like an idiot part." He raised an eyebrow, realizing he wasn't going off on a great tangent. "And third, what the hell is this? I volunteer to give you an interview and you fricking treat me like a suspect." He flashed a mirthless grin. "But I guess I am, huh?"

* * *

"Aviv Oren Karni. 764 Cayenne Drive."

Nick glanced up at him suspiciously. "You don't have a nickname do you?"

Aviv shook his head and Nick pointed at the tape recorder sitting on the table between them. "Oh. Sorry. No."

"Good. Where were you the night Shroven Khandula was shot? Between noon and six PM?

"Umm, noon I was… skating."

"And after that?"

Aviv shrugged. "There is no after. We skated the whole time. Grabbed lunch around four, but that's all. Switched from street to park after lunch though. Kor and Shrov were gonna meet us there, but they never showed up. Obviously."

"Now, you said 'we.' So you have someone that can vouch for your location?"

"Like an alibi? Sure. I was skating with some friends until I went to the skate park. There, either Mr. Martinez, he runs it, or, uh… Greg Sanders."

* * *

"Greg." Nick barged into the lab looking annoyed. "Where were you last night?"

Greg gave a dreamy sigh. "With a beautiful redhead named-"

Nick cut him off sharply. "Before that."

"Uhh… Jackpot Skate Park. 'Bout three-thirty to six-thirty. Why?"

"I need you to confirm that Aviv Karni was there from four to six PM yesterday. Can you do that?"

The DNA tech nodded. "'Course I can, Texas, my man. Anything else?"

Nick glared daggers at him. "Not yet. And don't call me that."

"Sure thang, pardner."

The lab doors slammed shut and Greg turned up his Anti-Flag CD.

* * *

"Alright, Kor. We've got a problem. You've got a lovely alibi about you taking a nap during the time Shroven was killed, but no one can substantiate that, right?"

The boy scowled. "Right."

"You know what else I find interesting? Would you repeat your address for me?"

"5154 Flamigo Court."

"You see, I thought I was getting you boys confused. Old age and all. But then I realized that I'm not old." Beat. _Damn. I thought it was funny._ "You have the same address as Tasco Venaras. Explain."

"Nothing to explain. We're roommates. So what?"

"So? Pancho Villa over there told me there used to be three of y'all together. What happened to the third guy?"

Kor snorted. "Vince Trageton? Thought he was the best skater the world had ever seen but he couldn't get sponsored for his life. He finally got fed us with skating with all us 'groms' and we had a fairly good-sized row. A little blood, a few bruises. Nothing serious. He left a few weeks ago. You reckon he was behind it?"

Nick ignored the compromising question. "I'm good up to the part about 'groms.' What's that?"

"Aussie slang. Short for grommet. It's, uh, what you call a newbie, but if you're talking to a seasoned skater, it'll piss 'em off something wicked."

"And was Shroven a grommet?"

"Shrov… Man, he'd been skating for a while, few years, but really had some trouble on his topside grinds. Vince never let him live it down." 

Nick chewed on his lower lip. "Might not have let him live, period."

A/N: Two down… More to go! Thanks to everyone who's reviewed. And if you haven't… baaaaaad. Something of minor/major/impending doom importance: I'm not exactly sure where this is going yet. I have bits and pieces of it planned in my mind, but nothing's set in stone. So every once in a while you might get a kind of wishy-washy chapter, and for that I apologize in advance. Hopefully won't be much of that. That also means that I am open to nudging and suggestions, just stuff you'd like to see. If it fits in and I like it, I'll do what I can to get it in. If not… sorry. I'm mostly writing this story for me, but if I can get two birds with one stone, then by all means. 

Ahh! I'm getting really long again. Now for a demonstration of my superb command of the English language. I present alliteration: "Reviews are really rad." Yay.


	3. Shima Who?

Aggressive 

By HarmZuay

Disclaimer: I do not own CSI: Crime Scene Investigation or any of its characters. They belong to Anthony Zuiker and CBS. This is purely for entertainment purposes. Bloody Leninists.   
  


Rating: PG-13 for language and violence.

Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews, guys! I really appreciate them! _spikes-storm_ and _megs23_: Thanks a lot! Keep an eye out for Chapter Four. I'll send it your way to look over as soon as I get it typed up. _Aeryn Lavanthia_: Fear not. More Greg is on the way! _Em_: Glad to hear you liked it. Their names will play a role in one of the coming chapters. _CrazEELizzEE_, _Lauren_, and _Capt. Cow_: Thanks for reviewing, and I'm glad you enjoyed it.

_Chapter Three – Shima Who?_

For the second time in as many hours, Nick stalked into the DNA lab, dragging a disgruntled Sara behind him.         

"Y'all rustle up some suspects yet?" Greg asked in a comical Western twang, spinning around several times in his lucky swivel chair.    

"Greg," Sara warned, sensing Nick's mood.          

"Look, man," Nick started, grabbing Sara's arm as she tried to sneak out of the lab. "You've gotta tell me everything you know about this skateboarding stuff so-"        

Greg cut him off before he could finish. "Whoa! You _so_ did not just say skateboarding. It's called _aggressive inline_. C'mon, man, say it with me..."      

"Whatever, man. I was close enough."      

"Nick, comparing skateboarding to agro inline is like comparing Tony Hawk to Brian Shima."            

"Soooooorry, Greg. I…" He trailed off, suddenly realizing that Sara had made that comment, not Greg. Before he could say anything else, Greg had launched himself out of his chair and grabbed Sara in a gigantic bear hug.    

"I told you we were perfect for each other!"            

"Sara?!" 

"So I watch a little ESPN. That doesn't- Greg get _off_ me! –that doesn't mean anything. I'm just familiar with a few of the skaters."            

"Alley-oop topsoul 180 out?" Greg tested her.       

"Soyale to acid soul _360_ out," she countered without batting an eye.          

"Uhh…" Nick looked at them as if they'd just turned into giant pink ducks with hundreds of tiny tentacles growing out of their bills and one eye on a stalk mounted on their backs. Well maybe not that bad. Fine. Without the pink part.         

"Sweet! Wanna skate with me sometime?" Greg asked, ecstatic.   

Sara shrugged. "I can't skate. My nephew does though. That soyale combo is his favorite trick." This time Sara grabbed Nick's arm before he could dodge out the doors.       

"What'd you need again, Nick?" Greg asked him.  

Nick sighed. "Alright, I've gotta know what kind of role skating plays in these guys lives. Motive enough to kill?"         

"First you've gotta understand skating. Especially since you confused it with boarding. A lot of those wood-pushers around here are posers who think wearing black and piercing their lip makes them punk. But skating- inline skating is different. It takes a lot longer to learn the tricks and a hell of a lot more commitment. Boarders can bail at any time. Blading, you've gotta ride it out.

"It's a lot more of a soul and style sport too. Royales and pornstars don't look really good unless they're smooth and low. Those are grinds," he supplied in response to Nick's confused look.  

"What else… top rollers in the world are Brian Shima, Chris Haffey, Alex Broskow, and Fabiola da Silva. The fact that she's really hot plays no role whatsoever."

"You've gotta be kidding me!" Sara interjected. "Shima, sure, but John Julio and Dustin Latimer kick-"

"Shima who? Man, I don't think all that really matters. Just... would it be a possible motive for murder?"

Greg shrugged. "Could be. I mean, all those guys were pretty hard core. But I haven't been skating with them much since stuff's been picking up around here. You'd have to check with the rest of the crew."           

Nick groaned. "Didn't we get all of them?" 

"Almost. You had Taz, Kor, and Aviv, right? That just leaves Surge and Petey."

"They have nicknames too?" He looked like he was about to cry.    

"Of course, ranger. You should be able to find them at Jackpot today around eleven-ish."     

"Fine. Let's go. Sara, you're my skate intel person. If you don't know, then we'll call Greg."

"Why don't we just bring him with us?" Sara suggested.

"Why don't you ask him. He _is_ in the same room," Greg commented sarcastically, rolling over to the printer. 

Nick rolled his eyes. "Alright. Wanna go on a field trip, Greggo?"    

"Can't. I've got to wait for the results on those epithelials you gave me." Nick opened the door to go as the printer spit out a piece of paper. "All done. Yeah, I'll go. By the way, these are the skin cells from under the vic's fingernails." He handed the sheet to Nick. "Positive for DNA. It's XY, but I need something to compare it to."  

Sara held the door for Nick and Greg as they exited the lab. "You're pretty sure there's a good chance these guys are gonna be at the skate park?" 

"Oh yeah. _Real_ good chance."     

"Then you should have some donors for comparison very soon."

A/N: One of the shorter chapters, but the next one should be a little bit longer. And there's some more action too. Yeeeeah. This was kind of a skating crash-course if you will, as well as a bit of character insight. Also, this should be my last un-betaed chapter, so any of htose gramattical or speling erors you spot wil hopefuly be gon in futire chaptrs. Plz reeveiw!! (Haha, isn't that so annoying to read?)


	4. Pornstar to Disaster

Aggressive 

By HarmZuay

Disclaimer: I do not own CSI: Crime Scene Investigation or any of its characters. They belong to Anthony Zuiker and CBS. This is purely for entertainment purposes. Bloody Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov-ists. Oy… that's a mouthful.  
  


Rating: PG-13 for language and violence.

Author's Note: Thanks to spikes-storm for betaing. Sorry it took so long for this to post, I was waiting for some other feedback, but I never got it, and rather wait for however long it would have taken, I'll go ahead and put it up. Just so nobody gets the wrong idea about this chapter, a pornstar is an acid miszou (which probably means nothing to you) grind where your front foot is grinding in soul position (your toes are pointing down the rail), and you back foot is on it's h-block (between your middle two wheels) and your toes are pointing in the direction of which foot you used. So if your right foot is souling, your back foot is pointed to the right. Same with left-left. That was probably the worst description in the history of skating. And a disaster is when you get lots of air and/or pull a grab before landing into a grind. I realize that's not exactly the way it runs in this story, but I don't think _Disaster to Pornstar_ fits quite as well. And now since I've wasted so much space on that… Rock on!

_Chapter Four – Pornstar to Disaster_

"So what makes you think it wasn't just a suicide?" Greg asked as Nick maneuvered the Tahoe through the heavy Vegas traffic.

"It doesn't add up. No GSR on his hands, although his prints were all over the gun. Plus the trigger was sticky and considering the estimated time of death and our response time, he couldn't have been dead for more than two hours." He paused to switch lanes and Greg jumped back in.

"So… there was no indentation on his trigger finger?"

Sara flashed him a smile. "Exactly."

"So… there was no indentation on his trigger finger?"

"Greg, you just said that."

"I know. I just wanted you to smile at me again." He grinned, and Sara couldn't resist returning the infectious emotion.

"Hey, cut it out you two!" Nick groaned, leaning on the horn.

Sara laughed inwardly at Nick's obviously annoyance. There was nothing going on between Greg and her- not right now at least –just playful banter. They'd talked it over before, Sara wanting to ensure that she hadn't broken the lab tech's spirit through her constant rejections.

Greg's response had been, "Like I give up that easily. Besides, if all else fails, 53% of the Vegas population has boobs."

Catherine had entered at this point, casually mentioning that, "Of those, only about 47% actually have vaginas." Greg had run around the room screaming about his "virgin ears," and the conversation had gone downhill from there. So Sara was _pretty_ sure they were cool.

"Greg, is it this left or next one?" Nick asked, bringing Sara back to the present.

"Next one!" Greg sang out before returning to his imaginary drum solo.

"This is going to be a looong day," Nick grumbled, turning off the main road.

* * *

Several blocks away, a shadowy figure approached the phone booth and rapped softly on the plastic two times. The person on the phone hung up, then exited, walking swiftly behind an alley dumpster. "Did you do it?"

"'Course I did. Whaddya take me for?" 

"An insolent, ignorant incompetent. Why else would I choose you?"

"Whatever, I don't have to put up with this. I did your shit, now you give me the goods. You got 'em or what?"

"'Course I do. Whaddya take me for?" the figure mocked. They grabbed a backpack from behind the dumpster and tossed it to the other person. "Haffey Remz. Size 10. Fifty-50 Team Balance frames with white juice blocks and the black Xsjados are in there as well. Reign neoprene liners and Campbell Mindgame wheels."

The eager recipient quickly sorted through the pack to make sure everything was there. "Gangsta. Well, I'm out." He or she, it was impossible to tell, turned to leave, but a pale arm shot out and grabbed their wrist. 

"Not quite yet. You remember what I said?"

"Yeah, yeah. I never seen you before, I got the skates for my birthday, and I been at the library studying all of today."

"Maybe we should change that to playing video games…"

"Whatever. Nice doing business with you."

"Peace," the other practically snarled at his retreating back.

* * *

They pulled into the relatively empty parking lot of Jackpot Skate Park and piled out, Greg going ahead to speak with Mr. Martinez. He came back out a few minutes later and waved them through the gate. "Good news. Owner says they're still here."

"Perfect. You see them anywhere?" Nick asked.

"Umm…" Greg quickly scanned the surrounding area. "If they're not out here, they could be in the indoor section. There! Skating around by that quarter-pipe. Surge has the green shirt and yellow helmet, and Petey's the grey sweatshirt, red helmet. Go ahead and talk to them. I have to see a man about a porcupine." He headed back toward the entrance.

"Porcupine?" Nick and Sara burst out in hysterics. Finally composing themselves, the two walked over the concrete to the indicated quarter-pipe. 

"Surge and Petey?" Nick called out. Two sweaty teenagers obligingly skated toward them.

"Yeah?"

"I'm Nick Stokes and this is Sara Sidle. We're from the Crime Lab, and we have a few questions to ask you."

"Is this about Shroven?" the one in the yellow helmet- Surge – asked in a heavy Russian accent absently switching between toe and heel manuals.

"So you both are familiar with the victim?" Nick queried. 

Two "yeah"s confirmed what Greg had already mentioned.

"Do you know of anyone who didn't get along with him?" Sara asked.

Petey removed his helmet, running a hand through short blonde hair. "Well his girlfriend, they had a fight about a week ago. He was pretty put out over it."

"Yeah," Surge added. "I think she was really jealous about you and Shrov hanging out so much and going to the movies those times."

Nick frowned. "Did Shroven show any signs of homosexual tendencies?"

"Huh?"

"No way!"

"So why would his girlfriend be jealous?"

Surge struggled to keep a straight face while Petey rolled his eyes. "Gee, I sure am glad we've got the best and brightest on this case," he quipped dryly. "We're gonna walk through this nice and slow. Shroven is a guy. Girlfriend, Marile is, surprise, a girl. And insanely possessive. So when he hung out with me- _girl_, she got jealous. ¿Comprenden?"

Nick flushed. "Oh. I, uh, see. You're a girl. Yeah."

Petey groaned, dragging a hand down _her_ face. "No shit, Sherlock. Er, sir."

Greg jogged back toward the group. "What'd I miss?"

"Oh, nothing." Petey glared at him. "Just me getting taken for a guy. Again. Maybe I should wear a sign. 'I am a girl.'" As an afterthought, "'And not a lesbian.' Why do I get the feeling you were behind this?"

Greg put on his innocent face, which was much like his guilty face only with his mouth open. "Hey, I just pointed you guys out, that's all."

"_Anyway_," Sara looked disapprovingly at her companions. "Maybe we should get formal names for the report?"

"Er, right," Nick mumbled, embarrassed.

"Sergei Nikoloz Belousov," Surge supplied.

"And Ashley Elizabeth Pete." She made a face as she spoke her name. "It sounds like a slutty cheerleader."

"Right. Hey, uh, Surge? What happened to your arm?" Greg gestured toward his left arm. A an ugly cut ran down the length of his forearm; the area around it was heavily bruised.

"There's a piece of metal up there, on the quarter-pipe, torn or something. I slipped off a grind on the coping and fell on it. I can show you if you want. I think we're the only people who've skated this ramp in the past few weeks. Most everyone else either hangs out on the half-pipe or skates the wooden ramps inside. They've got air conditioning," he sighed.

Greg glanced at Sara and Nick. "I'll check it out," he volunteered.

"Go ahead," Sara agreed, turning her attention back to Petey. 

Greg clambered up the side of the ramp while Surge circled, picking up speed. "Greggo, lemme show you my pornstar!" Greg, now standing, turned to see Surge fly up the ramp. He swiftly locked both feet onto the coping for a smooth grind. "Pretty sweet ride, huh?" he asked jumping off the coping onto the platform.

Before Greg had a chance to respond, he heard something under him snap, and suddenly the ramp was collapsing. He was aware of several sensations. Falling. Pain. Dark.

A/N: Ooh, cliffie… Hehe, I had fun writing the ending there, and the beginning of the next chapter. The next chapter that I'm not quite finished with, but will hopefully complete this weekend and post sometime next week. I was trying to go with an every other day update, but I just don't have the time to write like that. But don't worry- there will never be a delay longer than a week. Promise. If I do, you can force-feed me balls of cotton. Have you ever actually tried to eat one of those? Gah, I almost died. Anyway, like the Republicans, advocate Rum, Romanism, Rebellion, and… Reviews. Catch ya later.


	5. Brainless

Aggressive 

By HarmZuay

Disclaimer: I do not own CSI: Crime Scene Investigation or any of its characters. They belong to Anthony Zuiker and CBS. This is purely for entertainment purposes. Bloody Reds. Not Red Sox. Boston rules…  
  


Rating: PG-13 for language and violence.

Author's Note: I wasn't actually _trying_ to use up all of my allotted time, but I had lots of essays, lots of practices, and to top it all of I got sick. But your reviews (and threats!) got me through it and Chapter Five is finally here! This chapter is currently un-betaed because I'm running so late, but if there are problems with it, I'll fix them when I update with Chapter Six. Oh, a brainless in a back flip with a 540 spin, usually done on the half-pipe. Unless you want to end up like the name. 

_Chapter Five – Brainless_

"Holy shit!" No one was quite sure who said it, but everyone's attention immediately turned to the ramp. Nick and Sara looked on in horror as the platform buckled inward; Sergei's shocked eyes; Greg's mouth opened in a yell, the sound paralyzed in his throat. 

Petey rushed immediately to the pile of twisted metal and splintered wood that was no longer a quarter-pipe. "Greg? Surge? Are you guys okay?" she called hesitantly.

"I'm okay. I think." Surge moaned in pain. "Yob tvoyu mat'!" (A/N: If an ordinary Russian hits his finger with a hammer, he doesn't say, "Ouch, that really hurts!" He yells, "Fuck your mother!" and feels far better for it.)

"Will somebody please help me?" Petey bellowed, yanking a two by four aside.

A large of group of skaters and boarders who had gathered in response to the collapse, and they surged forward as Sara quickly phoned for an ambulance. The ramp itself had been roughly three meters high, but with as many hands working together, it was only a matter of minutes until Surge and Greg were uncovered.

Nick carefully dragged him free and examined his friend carefully. Greg's face and arms were covered in cuts, but blood trickled from a wound on his head. Miraculously, his hair remained untouched, save for the odd bit of sawdust. He was unconscious, but thankfully still breathing, and Nick located a strong pulse. 

"Tell them he's out cold, looks like a head injury," he called to Sara, who quickly relayed that information over her phone.

This taken care of, Nick turned to where Surge and Petey sat on a funbox conversing quietly. Surge had amassed similar scrapes like Greg, but Nick immediately noticed the grotesque angle at which his left arm was bent. Already it was swelling, and his hand looked ridiculously small in comparison to the enlarged limb.

Just then an ambulance squealed around the corner before lurching to a stop a few meters away. Four EMTs piled out, and Nick nervously noted that three of them headed directly for Greg. Feeling detached from the entire situation, he watched as Greg's limp form was lifted onto the gurney, stabilized, and loaded into the ambulance. Nick's mind was instantly flooded with sensations from the last time this had happened. The lab explosion; the stench of scorched hair and skin; the harsh smoke against his lungs, then the cool and blessedly clean outside air…

"Sir. Excuse me, sir, but you need to let go." Nick suddenly became aware of the EMT that was trying to pry his hand off of Surge's uninjured arm.

"Sorry. I… Sorry," Nick mumbled distractedly. Gradually the spectators began to disperse, and Sara moved toward Nick.

"Hey. Hey!" He looked up at her blankly. "They think he's going to be okay. Not positive, but good odds. Cath is going to meet him at the hospital."

Nick's face broke out into a relieved grin. "That's great! Maybe we can swing by after shift?"

"Sure, it's on the way back to the lab. Now get your rear in gear. We just got ourselves a new crime scene."

* * *

A lone figure surveyed his surroundings from the roof. Across the street and three lots down, two squad cars blocked the entrance, lights flashing. 

"Damn. Too obvious. Next time..." Turning, they kicked viciously at the small rocks scattered across the surface of the roof. "Next time, more subtle. But more deadly." A lone pebble skittered toward the edge, then silently dropped into oblivion.

* * *

"Look, I'm fine. Not dead. Really. Umm, my social security number is 575-43-2317. Date of birth is May 7, 1975. The alphabet backwards, uh, Z, Y, X, W, V, U, R, uh, I mean T. Hey, that doesn't mean anything. Please? Whoa, wait! Shoo. Stay over there. Needles are bad. Seriously. You know, I think I'm allergic to needles, so if you'd kindly – OUCH!"

Catherine laughed quietly to herself as she covered the last several meters to the room where Greg's panicked voice had come from. She didn't know what they were doing to him, but Greg sounded, now that she thought about it, pretty normal.

The door to the room opened, and a harried-looking nurse stepped out with a dramatic sigh. "You here for Greg Sanders?"

"How is he?"

"Asleep for now. Thankfully. He has a mild concussion and a pretty nasty gash on his head. My assistant was _trying_ to stitch him up, but he started to freak out when he saw the needle. We had to, uh, sedate him." She smiled sheepishly.

_Greg? Afraid of needles, are we? Hmm…_ "Can I see him?"

"Go ahead. I'll have to come with you, of course. Procedure." She moved to open the door, and Catherine nodded.

"Of course." Upon entering the room, she barely managed to contain her gasp. "My God. Are you sure he's alright?"

The nurse nodded in sympathy. "Looks bad, I know, but the cuts and bruises should disappear as the weeks go by. His head was the only thing we were really worried about. Probably going to get a scan before we discharge him, though, just to be sure."

_Ha, Greggo. You're finally getting your head examined._ "When do you think he'll be out of here?"

"Doc should clear him tomorrow so long as he has someone who can keep an eye on him. Otherwise he'll stay for one more night of observation."

_Observation? Maybe then you'll know how a _real_ lab rat feels._ Catherine wasn't sure where all these random thoughts were coming from. Maybe with Greg unconscious all his eccentricity had to find a new channel. "Sounds good. I have a feeling he'll want to be out as soon as possible, so I'll swing by this morning. If he wakes up, can you let him know I was here? Oh, and the rest of the team and his friends are worried about him." The nurse made a note on her chart. "Thanks. Sleep tight, Greggo." She planted a kiss on his forehead, and walked out the door.

* * *

"Definitely intentional. These bolts were cut," Nick remarked, examining the sheared evidence.

"Confirms what the owner said. Everything else seems to be in near-perfect condition. Wear and tear, yes, but nothing dangerous."

Nick absently rolled the threaded end of the bolt between his gloved fingertips, deep in thought. "Near-perfect, huh? What about that piece of metal Surge mentioned? Owner know about that?"

Sara shook her head. "Nope. Said this ramp was one of the best. You think Surge lied?"

"Possible. No way to tell now though, at least not through evidence. It makes some sense if you think about it. Greg's our main source of information on this case. Take him out, and things slow down substantially."

"True. Surge did say they were the only ones to skate this particular ramp. Plus, by being a victim himself, he throws the blame."

"Just what he wants if those two are trying to hide someone. Or something. We never got those DNA samples from either of them."

Nick cracked his neck. "Why don't you swing by Desert Palms for those and see if you can get them both to volunteer for a questioning."

"Works for me. And you?"

He shrugged. "Still looking for a print. If we can manage to get one off of any of these, then we're one step closer to nailing our guy."

"Good. Because it seems like they won't stop at much to widen the gap."

A/N: See longer to update, longer chapter. I think. I'm too lazy to run word count. Now, to everyone who wanted lots of Greg angst, hold your horses… Trust me, it'll be worth it. As for the suggestions, I'm trying to stray away from any already-scripted stories. It's just more fun for me to write, and, I hope, for you guys to read, when you don't know what's going to happen next. To _KrazyKid197_, who noted my political mockery… hey, can't say that I think much of our government. Perhaps why Greg was listening to Anti-Flag, eh? _RainbowsnStars_, thanks for the reviews. All of them, hehe. And yes, I've read Video Killed the Radio Star. _Michmak_ did a superb job on that. To everyone else, thanks for the reviews! Like I said, when I felt like lying in bed feeling sorry for myself because I was sick – I wrote this bad boy! 

Hmm, now something witty to get you to reviews… Alright, you are forced to choose between reviewing and being slowly tortured by Chechen rebels (note that they are not _terrorists_). Unless you're some sort of masochist, review. And even if you are, review first, and then go get tortured…


	6. Stalling

Aggressive 

By HarmZuay

Disclaimer: I do not own CSI: Crime Scene Investigation or any of its characters. They belong to Anthony Zuiker and CBS. This is purely for entertainment purposes. Bloody McCarthyists. What? They're just as bad…  
  


Rating: PG-13 for language and violence.

Author's Note: Mmmph. I HATE cotton! Even if it is covered in chocolate… [shameless Catch-22 plug] So, I really hate giving out excuses. Even more than I hate hearing them, actually, but this took so long due to some miscommunication between my sister and I. I was in Atlanta with her on Spring Break and I wrote most of this up, but whenever I was in the dorm she wasn't and wouldn't give me the password to her computer. But still my fault. Sorry…

Anyway, on with the story. A stall is simply landing in any grind position on a surface without actually grinding it. Then this chapter felt very… slow to me, so the title seemed apt. 

_Chapter Six – Stalling_

Nick and Sara returned to the lab tired, disheveled, and sore, but ultimately triumphant. Nick had painstakingly managed to pull two partials from the sheared bolt heads, and Sara had obtained prints and DNA samples from Surge as well as Petey, just to be safe.

After a brief visit with Jacqui to drop the prints off, Sara headed to the DNA lab, slightly worried as to who would be covering for Greg. As it turned out, her fears were not unfounded, and she resisted the urge to bash her head against the wall once she laid eyes on Vincent. Apparently, the double-duty tech himself wasn't too thrilled either, made obvious by his contemptuous sneer.

"What's this? More work. You must think quite highly of my skills if you expect me to process all of this in one night."

"You'd be better off with less talking, more working." It was times like these that she truly appreciated Greg's crush on her. All she had to do was say the word and he'd start analyzing as if his life depended on it. "Don't think I'm any happier about this than you are."

"Yeah… Sanders." Sara was surprised to see his derisive features soften slightly. "How's he doin' anyway?" Despite the tension between the two technicians, Vincent still had an enormous amount of respect for the younger man.

"He'll live. Pretty banged up with a handful of stitches, but Catherine's going to pick him up this morning after shift."

Vincent nodded. "Good to hear. Now what've you got for me?"

Sara handed him the swabs. "I need you to compare these to the unknown DNA Greg got from the nail scrapings."

"Oh, that's all?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I've only just started the ones Nick gave me for the same purpose." Just like that, any camaraderie the two might have shared was gone, and most all seemed back to normal.

And as per normal, Sara couldn't stand to listen to the other's complaints any longer. "Then you'd better hurry up. On second thought, run mine first, then finish his."

"Nick isn't gonna be-"

"We're working the same case!" she cried in exasperated annoyance. "For once in you life will you just close your mouth and do what I tell you?

Taken aback by her reaction, Vincent meekly complied.

* * *

"Ohh man, are you serious? That's too great!" Warrick was laughing as Sara trudged into the break room and collapsed on the couch with an "oomph." 

"What's so funny?"

"Greg's… afraid… of needles!" Nick finally wheezed.

"So? Everybody's afraid of something. Needles don't seem that absurd."

"Maybe not," Warrick compromised, "but you should've heard Cat do her impression of him. 'Nooooo! Stay away!'" he cried out in a high-pitched, squeaky voice, eerily similar to Andre Delambre in _The Fly_. His antics and arm waving sent all three bursting into another bout of laughter.

"Where is Catherine anyway?" Sara asked, after she'd calmed herself.

"Went to grab some food. Chinese I think." Nick's pager beeped and he grinned, waving for Sara to follow him back into the lab.

* * *

"What've you got for us, Jacqui?" 

"Good news. Those partials you gave me had several markers and AFIS managed to give me a pretty straight hit." She handed Nick a paper from the printer.

"Paul Ellison, huh? He better not have a nickname…"

Sara glanced toward him. "You feel like paying a visit or trying for a warrant to bring him in instead?"

This time it was Sara's pager that beeped before Nick could answer. "I think we'll have to let Brass handle this one, Nicky. We have our own visit to… ugh, Vincent."

When they reached DNA, they found the aforementioned tech with a cross between a simpering smirk and a grimace upon his face. "Sara, you shouldn't have put your samples ahead of Nick's. I ended up getting the match off of the last of his. Venaras, Tasco. Hmm, weird name. Anyway, he was all over your guy."

Sara took the proffered sheet of paper and slid it into the manila case folder. "This one, I think we're gonna check in on. C'mon, Nick."

"Wait. You put your samples ahead of mine?"

* * *

"Sara. Nick. Hold up." Grissom strode toward the doors through which the pair was about to exit. "You're not going to be happy about this, but I need you to check out Paul Ellison's place instead. Brass pulled all his weight, but we don't have enough evidence to obtain anything higher than a search warrant and I don't want this guy to run out on us."

To say Sara was not happy would be the understatement of the week. "He's fifteen, Grissom. Where's he going to run? Besides, what about the only suspect that we tied directly to the vic?" she exploded.

"Ellison has two prior arrests. Both times he attempted to evade police authorities. And I'm going to have Catherine and Warrick bring Venaras in. Him, we _do_ have enough to hold, at least temporarily."

Sara held up a hand, anger fading, but suspicion beginning to set it. "We only just got the results. How could you have already run a warrant through to Brass?"

Grissom smiled. "Honestly, Sara. I'm not working this case. So who do you think Vincent paged first?"

"Damn brownnoser…"

* * *

"Oh, Catherine! I love you! You _are_ here to rescue me, right?" Greg made a face at the back of the nurse that had accompanied her. 

"Depends. Can I get a signed form limiting certain music?"

"Hell no!"

"Ah, there it is." The nurse stood up with a rubber enema in her hand.

Greg blanched. "Anything you want Cat! It's all Disney songs from now on!"

Both women hid their smiles as best they could. "Alright, Mr. Sanders. You're all set. Just come back in two weeks so that you can get those stitches out."

Once they were safely walking down the corridor Greg stopped Catherine. "Wanna see pictures of my brain?"

"I've seen enough, thanks. Let's go. Warrick's waiting in the car."

"Oh no. My brain is special. Just take a look." He pulled out a sheaf of pictures and handed them to her.

"So?" she asked, idly flipping through them.

"Keep looking." Greg peered over her shoulder eagerly. "Stop! Doesn't that one look like Napoleon?"

"Aaargh! Come _on_, Greg!"

"Alright, alright. I'm coming. You weren't serious about that music thing, were you?"

"Oh, please. How much do you think I love watching Grissom's face when he hears you screaming about how much Dubya 'lies his fucking face off'?" Catherine grinned.

"Really? Hmm. I hadn't pinned him as a Conservative…"

A/N: Despite all the time I had to work on this chapter, I'm really not very pleased with it. I don't know, I guess I just have trouble matching the attitudes of most of the other characters, especially Sara and Grissom. Which is why I felt most comfortable writing the end of this chapter. I was getting kinda scared when there was no Greg, so I had to stick him in here instead of the beginning of next chapter.

A few things and people to address: _KrazyKid197,_ all right, so I can't say much for government in general. Not that I'm a mad anarchist or anything, but the sheer magnitude of corruption nauseates me. Tony Blair I would take over Bush in an instant! And an archive? Crazy cool! Er, that's a yes… _RainbowsnStars_, "it'll be worth it" means angst in coming chapters. But for that, you'll just have to keep waiting. _Cuadripteryx, Em, dee,_ and _Sillie, _thanks a lot for sticking with me and reviewing! And for any of you out there that are dyslexic… ESAELP WEIVER!


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